Sol, Chapter 3: The Urge

I’ve been out of shelter my whole life, but tonight I can feel it especially. Right up in my broken chest. The externally induced visions of the future I’ve experienced during the oppression of our sun have forced my awareness in the present under heavy stones. The alley I awoke in earlier was one of many in this megacity where faces are absent from for weeks. Earth is filled with the dead.

The machines keep ground-level sterile of any substance harmful to electronics. Although the abundance of ultradeadly human viruses are a product of them. The groundlevel survivors know how to avoid such things, but those people are few and far between. The salt-head cannibals roam the alley sections in packs where the drones fly seldom. My small weapon of choice is an old adamantium flat head screwdriver. Yet I’d rather use my hands. I need the ancient tool for the salt-heads in order to forgo impurities on my skin. The electromagnetic pulse from my palms passes through any sort of material, inflaming the electronics in its path.

Belief is not my provider, rather, protons destroying one another in my clutch give me this power. This source instills a sort of weakness in me, and it is also my strength. This way is practiced by none other than myself, on this planet at least. War is no longer unholy here on Earth for there are no more women nor children to have their lives unjustly and horrifically taken from them. The selfish ones have accomplished that, the capitalists have driven the lower-class underground.

The fiends dash around the corner to my left, but I could smell them long before I sensed anything else. In the matter of microseconds my metal slid through ear drums and into brains wasted by drugs. The drugs made by ECG which offered salvation at first to low-class people by making them hallucinate and think they are themselves corporations. The delusions devolve into a terrible blackness where there are no human traits left. They are called salt-heads for a reason. The flakes of filth shed constantly.

To be a corporation on Earth is looked on as the highest state of being. I am here to change that. The salt-heads are the corp people’s lowest form of defense, even lower than the machine drones which are cheaply mass produced by other machines. No, the salt-heads are even better for the selfish ones because the cannibals were once humans who paid to become corporate minions- although unknowingly. That is why I have no remorse shoving metal into a former female’s torso. I hold the others at bay with electricity, and I think of the oath I swore not to harm flesh by my provider. I make an exception when the innocent are in danger but not for myself. Using tools to off mindless cannibals is not glorious and it will not become an injustice in the eyes of my morality in that well on Titan many years from now. And so I immobilize the half dozen rotting creatures at my back, shutting down their nervous systems instantly.

It’s not long before the humming machines sense movement out in the open alley intersection. The generic drones are cumbersome, running off of inefficient Oil 2 Cells powering the rocket cylinders under the square shells that make up their ugly frames. An explosion shakes the fragmented concrete beneath my bare feet. The mechanical swarm approaches. The salt-heads scatter into the sewers and gutters. A burst of plasma emanates from my being and the swarm is rendered confused, they shoot their missiles at nothing in particular. Entire city blocks which were already facing decay become an obliterated waste. The miscalculating machines destroyed half of the swarm themselves.

I scream two syllables which have not been uttered on Earth for generations.

FREEDOM

Liberty from the waste. Choice has decimated passivity. My blue lips are hidden from our burning sun by my own blood and synthetic oil from above. I have chosen. My time has come to die. Death is more silent than space on this planet.

Inexplicable in material terms, the purple like aegis envelopes my physical structure. I can be nothing if I want to, and just like that, I vanish. Heaps of already rotten flesh and charred skeletons of machines are strewn about where I once was. The corporations say that heaven dissipated ages ago, yet they never deny the existence of hell. It would be foolish to deny such since hell is their domain. The Necros taught my provider through ancient knowledge; the kind of intrinsic wisdom that lies somewhere in biological constructs is not mere conjecture. Souls may not exist in this plane, this realm is devoid of most niceties unfortunately, yet there is a garden in our hearts. Some may call this bed of flowers an urge, a kind of feeling. Not all people have this, but the many that do may serve as proof that our universe is not doomed. To hell with predestination, liberty is humanity’s collective soul, freedom is the last hope for intelligent beings, without it, all sentient life will become inconsequential. The communes must prevail.

Sol, Chapter 2: Onto Deaf Ears

Do unto others what you would have them kill you with. The shrapnel penetrates the vaginal walls. Do unto others untold harm and you will find joy in misery. Why shouldn’t miserable be a default setting? Desire is an immeasurable fortress, and not of solitude. Subtlety is key to survival, unless power folds up once more in The Big Crunch. Power is almost everything. The space communes will continue to flounder.

Our future has been set upon the table before us. The dregs of the Earth in the megacities have been rendered redundantly useless because of the machines. Our plastic children have multiplied Earth GDP by hundreds of trillions. The culture of all 465 Luna colonies are homogenous. The patriarchal post-family environment was last calculated at 98.33% efficiency (The Anarcho-homosexuals’ attempts at disrupting our processing plants have decreased by 50% in the last cycle alone). The machines have not harvested Helium 3 this successfully for at least 3 generations. No one but the commune filth know that Oil 2 is actually an inferior version of H3. Our calculated plans for the colonization of Outer Sol will not be deviated from. The plastic will swallow the communes.

Our faith has not been set in stone. The Machine Deity has circumvented all obstacles in question. There is not faith. After the second coming of the ancient Man-God, “heaven” vanished from our plane of existence. Why then, do these heretics think they flourish in their supposed 2nd level civilization? Heaven is gone, utopias are ancient folklore. Their technology is infested with dark matter, and so are the words that spring from their pale blue lips. The desire that they produce is unending. Their freedom is a grotesque abomination.

We have infiltrated the roomy space module. The corp people, of course, have spacious and clean interiors for their high class Morgan cruisers. The truth is, their fleet that is supposed to be the most awesome in Sol, is merely 10 cruisers in total, with a few dozen human-operated gunships. They have real strength in their mass-produced drone fleets (with some of the machine-ships only measuring 4 centimeters in diameter). The lower-class humans that these machine worshiping capitalists have enslaved are not even legally forbidden from space, but are prevented access out through forced ignorance and economical oppression. The capitalists have controlled Earth for too many centuries. The time has come for that to change.

Sol, Chapter 1: Non-Consentual Machine Sex

It was time for Daniel to lose his virginity. His mother shoved him into the cramped room with Diamond- the family pleasure machine. Daniel’s family, his immediate one, numbered over two dozen colonists. His family were Neo-Christians. As soon as boys hit puberty they were forced to practice dominance. Although there was not that much of a need for coercion. The urge for dominance was thought to have naturally occurred in adolescent males.

It didn’t happen to him. There was no “natural” presence in his genetic makeup determining his want for power over the opposite sex, let alone other males. Daniel was not the only one. His feelings have been found in all free people. He wasn’t a little boy, he was a very lanky boy, and he didn’t feel the desire rising inside. He felt the pain he had seen in the faces of his sisters, suffocated by plastic, violated by flesh with his father behind them in constant control. Diamond was hard, Daniel was not. He would be weeded out because of this. This was the rite of passage. This was how colonies on Luna functioned: authoritarian environments with patriarchal families operating Oil 2 synthesizing farms.

Daniel had never heard of the space communes way away from the moon that he had always known as his one and only home. The colonies that weren’t really colonies at all, but just places where people lived together. Not necessarily in total harmony, but what they constituted their mutual existences on operated independently of corporate controlled Earth.

We were once trapped and now we are free, but the time for rejoicing is finished, it is now time to build this alternate civilization- a human one once again. We are not zealots because we are individuals. However, we must still evangelize…

Daniel was done with the toy.

I’m out now mother.

Have you done the deed?

Do you know how it hurts me inside, how it tears my guts apart, every time I am forced to feel the touch of plastic mother? I know you can feel the disgust as I do towards this insulated life. Every day you dream of being on Earth. I know it. Tell me mother, does feeling the natural beauty, humanity’s ancient home, does that give you an affection for plastic? Do the synthetic mountain ranges, all of the corp clouds and the green water bubbling in the steaming seas, does that make you impervious to plastic? Does home make you love being malleable?

Blaspheme in this dome once more and I will throw you into the vacuum.

If the patriarch-

If loving Father, His grace, knew that you could not bear the touch of plastic, he would liquidize you instantly and rightfully so- you have shamed your family with this abomination you call freedom. You have no idea what it is. Those animals up there with their lesbian orgies are a disgrace, and they think they are the future. Stop thinking about this, I am saving you- now go have sex with the machine Daniel. Make Father proud.

See what they have done to themselves, these cultists? They are the remnants of authoritarian religion and capitalism. It is not wrong to pity them, but they cannot easily be freed. They are too entrenched in their ideology. At least they serve as a reminder, and a warning, of what we once were back on Earth.